getggwithit | Back to Basics (lovingvambrace)

Back to Basics (lovingvambrace)

(Continuation of some other stuff.)

He leans his head forward, gratefully accepting the fingers rubbing against his scalp like a cat who's succumbed to having his head stroked (after pretending he didn't want it.) It's almost enough to make him purr, particularly as Cullen eases up behind him and wraps an arm around him.

"Your approval was all the convincing I needed." He turns his head, enough to nudge the edge of his beard against Cullen's cheek, sinking further into his arms. Maker, it hasn't really been months since they were this close, but it sure as shit suddenly feels like it. There's a mild quiver under his skin, a familiar thrum of anticipation that is all too ready to slink back wherever it came from, used to being denied of late.

Garrett bites his lip and closes his eyes. He exhales, and those fingers grasp Cullen's thigh, pulling him closer.

"Isn't it hot outside?" An understatement, as they're in a bloody desert. "You should take a break right here, where it's cool." He rocks his hips back in a very unsubtle grind.

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He feels his breath go thready at just the touch of his beard. They've kissed and nuzzled a bit since the fight, neither of them stoic enough to leave off touching altogether. But it has always been careful, with an eye toward keeping desire banked down low, a spark beneath ash while Hawke was healing.

Still is healing, he reminds himself, but not as fragile now. They won't tear open stitching or wounds if they don't get vigorous. He swallows audibly when he's drawn closer, following the pull. His arm shifts, hand grasping his opposite shoulder in a firm squeeze as he holds him back against himself.

"Will it be cool for long?" he asks, humor in his voice, an edge of something else as well. His lips brush his cheek above the thick line of beard. He has wanted this, needed it, for long enough that just the implication they might be able to give answer has flame licking up inside him, turning muscle to liquid heat beneath his skin.

He hadn't planned on this. Like so many of his ridiculous ideas, it sort of just popped up in the moment. But now that it's here, it occurs to him that the only thing holding him back from acting on it is Grisele's sharp voice in his head, shouting at him not to move too much. That, plus the still immensely tender wound on his side, but he's less afraid of that than he is of the old healer.

Still, the tightening of Cullen's embrace, the edge in his voice only adds fuel to the fire. He leans his head back, and sets one hand on the pile of crates in front of him to steady himself.

"Probably not," he mutters. "But I'm cold anyway." The hand on Cullen's thigh moves inward, cupping between his legs. He could not possibly get any less subtle, now.

His breath is warm and humid against Hawke's ear. The shudder in his exhale is audible, as is the gasp that follows. He was already beginning to stir from the turn in the conversation and mood. It's almost embarrassing how quickly he leaps to attention under that touch but not surprising. He has been ravenous for it.

"Well, we can't have that," he murmurs breathlessly. His lips catch his soft lobe in a gentle tug, teeth lightly scraping.

"You're cranky when you're cold. Miserable and impossible." His hand drags from his shoulder slowly across his chest, lifting to his neckline and carefully working inward to touch skin to skin. The coolness of the basement is relative, of course. Anywhere in Ferelden and much of Orlais, this would be unbearably hot. Here, he takes what comfort he can. He's only damp with sweat, not pouring.

One of the only good things about his extended bedrest is the lack of complicated clothing. For weeks now he's worn nothing but a loose tunic, trousers, and boots, no belts or armor or anything else to muck things up. The tunic's collar gives easily as Cullen slides his hand inside, and Garrett arches back against him, turning his head to encourage the nip at his ear.

"The worst," he says gravely. "You'd best see to me quickly."

He grinds back the heel of his hand, giving Cullen something to rub against while he works out the mechanics of the situation. There's at least plenty of "furniture" about. Some cloth, some soft-looking sacks. Surely, there's some way they can fool around, some position Garrett can get into that won't leave him a screaming, bleeding mess on the floor.

The mental image makes him wince slightly. May as well say what they're both thinking.

"I'll be careful," he says under his breath. "But I'm going to blighted die if you don't touch me. Now."

"That's what I was thinking," he says humorously, some of the effect of it ruined by the way he shamelessly grinds into his hand, a soft groan following on the heels of it.

He nods, relieved to hear him say it so that he doesn't have to. Hawke gets less testy when he's the one making such proposals. Like him, Cullen casts his gaze about. "We can make you a pallet of sorts with some of those sacks. It'll support your lean, and I can..." He forces it past another rough breath. "I can have my mouth on you."

Maker, he has wanted that so much his mouth waters with the thought of it. He carefully pulls his hand out of his tunic. "Just give me a few moments, Love. I'll make quick work of this."

He drags a pallet close to one of the crates, tossing two soft sacks atop it for the base and then stacking a few more behind it at a steep grade, somewhere comfortable for him to settle and lie back a bit fully supported, easy to get down to and to stand from with help.

Crossing back over to him, he reaches both hands down to help him up. "Your litter awaits, M'Lord," he offers playfully.

It's hard to describe the relief that floods through him when Cullen agrees with him. Half the bloody frustration of this dry spell has been the fact that it really has been the responsible thing to do. So many times, they've kissed or nuzzled or gripped hands, and one of them has had to make the choice to withdraw before things got too hot and heavy. Usually Cullen, as one might expect, since he's the responsible one. If he'd dissuaded Garrett this time, he really did believe he might scream.

He breaks away from Cullen with an eager nod, and immediately starts disrobing. His boots come off, his trousers next, and he yanks the laces of his tunic open, leaving it hanging appealingly off his shoulders. The hated bandages are still wrapped thick around his waist, holding the clean gauze that now protects his mostly-mended wound.

He's just sliding his smalls off when Cullen finishes. Cracking a grin at his own desperation, he takes his hands and lets him lead him up onto the makeshift support. "This is the only time you'll get away with calling me that in this context," he teases. With Cullen's aid, he gets into a comfortable position, lounging back against the sacks. More supportive than a bed, less uncomfortable than the floor.

As much as he'd love to be able to disrobe, too, to feel him skin to skin, he has to be more careful. He's still on duty, and if there is an emergency of some sort, he can't afford the twenty minutes or so it would take to put his armor back on. He does, however, remove his pauldrons, cowters, and vambraces. He doesn't want any chance of metal digging into him.

He shoots him a quick grin for the tease, eyes dancing. It has been a while since they could just tease each other, too. Uncomplicated. Maker, what he wouldn't give for a string of uncomplicated days.

He comes to kneel between his legs, gently spreading them, rough skinned hands running up his inner thighs. "Look at you," he murmurs, bending lower to skim a kiss over the top of his thigh, "spread out for me. Wanting, waiting." He trails an exhale up the length of his cock. The self-control it takes even for that is almost enough to undo him.

He rustles back against the debris, pillowing an arm behind his head and watching Cullen taking off armor pieces with something close to desperation in his eyes. How long has it been? They certainly haven't been intimate since before the siege on Adamant. Maker, when was that?

Long enough that even the slightest of touches on his thighs makes him shiver, visibly trembling up through his spine. He shifts his legs, lazily hitching one over Cullen's shoulder, then tangling his fingers in his hair as he gets closer.

"You have no idea," he murmurs. Well, maybe he does. "It's so hard, watching you work all day. Being in that room with you, aching for you but knowing I can't..."

Garrett sucks in a breath. If he doesn't settle himself, this is going to be the fastest he's ever come by complete accident.

He starts to quiver the moment thick fingers tangle into his hair. His mouth opens wider, breath in a concussive spill across his cock. "I know." It's utterly breathless. "The discipline it takes to stay focused..." When all he wants is to take him somewhere private, like now.

He wastes no more time on words, and he can't bring himself to tease him physically, not when he's so hungry for this. His mouth closes over his head, warm and wet, tongue probing and pushing back his foreskin as he draws him in with suction. His cheeks hollow. He groans hard enough to vibrate his chest. Both hands settle around the outsides of Hawke's thighs near his hips, gripping but not pulling.

His breath cuts before he gets him in fully, feeling the blunt head nudge the back of his throat. His taste is exquisite, eyes squeezing shut to focus on all of the other sensations he has missed. He draws back only to plunge down again, rhythm aggressive, starved. He's so hard himself that it aches.

Cullen slides him into his mouth, and Garrett groans in appreciation. Feeling braced against the litter by his body, his hands, it gives him a strange sensation of helplessness, of being cornered like this. Not an unpleasant feeling, all told, when it means he has Cullen's attention all to himself.

He rubs slow, lazy circles over Cullen's scalp, locks of blond twisting around his fingers. It helps him keep his focus, keep disciplined so this doesn't end before it's even begun. His whole body is excited in ways that are almost unfamiliar, so long it's been since he had the energy to spare for anything but healing.

"Ah, Maker..." It's nearly a squeak, escaping as Cullen starts to work him hard right from the get-go. Watching the still mostly-dressed Commander bobbing his head so desperately is nearly as hot as the warm embrace of his mouth. "Look so good. Feel even better, Love..."

He hums under his breath when he has the chance, before it's cut off again in taking him deep. He has never been immune to praise from him, or his hands. Those blasted hands in his hair are what started all of this, not that he'd ever complain.

He feels almost drunk from the taste of him. He brackets his hips between both hands, a firm grip without being bruising. After a few moments of taking him quickly and deeply, he begins to slow a little, dragging up with his mouth, holding at the tip for a swirl of tongue, lapping across his opening, and then plunging down again to pulse with a hollow of cheeks.

As hard as he is, at the moment, he only wants to focus on Garrett. He has been in pain long enough. He deserves a chance at pleasure.

He's told him before, but Garrett is really and truly proud of Cullen's learned to use his mouth all these years. There's something intensely erotic, knowing that he is the one who taught him, the one upon who he's refined his technique. To have gone from tentative and clumsy to a damn near virtuoso of sucking cock... Of course he's biased, but he honestly thinks Cullen gives the best head he's ever had. (Better than Garrett gives? He won't ever admit that out loud.)

"Maker." He lets his hand rest atop Cullen's head, watching him, entranced by the sight. One thigh quivers uncontrollably, and he makes a noise and tries to hold it still. It's been so damned long since he got to feel good.

"I'm not going to last long. I'll need... practice," he murmurs under his breath. "You'll have to go down on me once a day, work my way back up to normal."

He chuckles, pulling up only long enough to answer him. "Don't feel like you have to hold back on my account. We can practice as much as you like." Every day sounds perfectly reasonable to him given how long they've been forced to abstain. If he can handle it, and it doesn't hinder his healing, he'll have a very willing participant.

He takes him in again with slower, more deliberate suction, raising his gaze to watch his face, as much as he can see of it. They'll need to look into a beard trim, too, but that's not worth ruining his rhythm with cute commentary. Knowing he's close, he doesn't suck him in as deeply. He wants it across his tongue, not down his throat where all he can do is swallow frantically and pray he doesn't choke.

That thought is almost enough to have him reaching between his own legs for a desperate squeeze. He hasn't wanted this intensely since he's not sure when, easily since the times they were forbidden to each other and had to take what they could get when they could get it.

"I'm holding you to that," he says quickly. "Nng- practice."

The look on his face is nothing short of adoring, his breath heavy and his hand lazily petting Cullen's hair to encourage him. It feels much better knowing he doesn't need to hold back, doesn't need to make this last (because now he's been promised practice!)

"Right there," he purrs. "Like that. Just like that."

The tightening of his fingers around a lock of hair is the forewarning, followed by a low, shuddering moan. His hips jut upwards by reflex, sending a mild ache through his side. He ignores it in favor of savoring the climax, so long-awaited, so needed it feels like letting out a breath held in too long. With a few thick bursts he spills, nearly whimpering as his orgasm rolls through him and leaves him panting on the litter.

He figured he would, not at all worried about it. It's a promise he's all too happy to keep. If anything, he'll have to be sure his eagerness for this doesn't interfere with his day to day duties. It would be all too easy to lose himself in fantasy while handling routine tasks that bore him already.

He obliges, holding his mouth just so, cupping him with his tongue, running it along the spot he knows he likes best. It would take fare longer to forget these things, if he ever could. The sound he makes is soft and involuntary. He has wanted exactly this, and now he has it.

Louder groans follow. He takes the spurts across his tongue and some down his throat despite his care. It's a heavy load, not surprising under the circumstances. He swallows thickly, feeling a bit dripping from the seal of his lips and down his shaft. His tongue makes quick work of it. Only when he feels Garrett subside back does he also slow, eventually coming to rest with him still in his mouth. If he's going to get soft, he wants to feel it, and if he has more in him after their long absence, he wants that, too.

He runs a hand along the outside of Garrett's thigh, an affectionate caress and squeeze.

Between the groaning and the swallowing and the way Cullen watches him, it's as though all the energy is sucked right out of him. He leans back against the pillows, arms limp, chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath, a look nothing short of reverent on his face. The sight of Cullen sitting there so obediently, still holding him in his mouth-- that's going to be with him a while.

"Maker." One of his knees trembles slightly, and he fights the nervous urge to put his foot up on the litter. "Feels like it's been a blighted year." As much as he'd love to do that another six or seven times, he's starting to go soft. The afterglow of orgasm has him relaxing against his will, even feeling the temptation to close his eyes. (Cullen would forgive him for conking out asleep immediately after coming, but Garrett wouldn't forgive himself.)

"You look like you enjoyed that."

When he can tell he's going limp, he pulls off with a final noisy suck and licks the rest of it from his lips, reaching up to wipe at his chin and take that off his fingers. It's hard to believe there was ever a time he didn't like the taste of this, a very distant past.

"It has been far longer than I'd like," he agrees, sitting up on his knees. A quick adjustment keeps his breeches from pinching him uncomfortably. He lets out a shaky breath, cheeks flushed, hair clinging at his forehead and temples. He'll have to fix himself up a bit before he can immediately head back out to work, not that he's completely inclined to immediacy right now.

"I did. I've missed having you that way." He's beyond grateful he's able after what happened. He'd never thought to see him again, a bit of an unfortunate theme.

"You certainly haven't lost your touch at all."

Garrett doesn't sit up yet, still lounging quite disreputably across the litter. His smile is lazy and adoring at the same time, and he reaches out to rustle his fingertips through those sweaty curls.

"What can I do for you?" he murmurs. "Anything. I want to." As much as he likes to be the center of erotic attention, he doesn't want to be the only one receiving any. And besides, there's plenty he can do mostly motionless on a padded platform. Like... friction? Right?

He gives it some real thought, not wanting to do anything vigorous for a number of reasons. Suddenly his mouth curves. "Direct me." He holds his right hand out slightly to the side. "Make me your proxy."

He hopes it's an erotic enough idea that Garrett will find it intriguing, having to think about what would feel good and please him and getting the satisfaction of being in control. "We don't have time to tease too much right now. We can always revisit this tonight if you like and may be able to do better with the bed."

It's not that he doesn't think Garrett can handle anything, just that where they are and how dressed he's had to stay don't lend themselves to many creative options.

"My proxy?" Thanks to the recent orgasm he isn't quite firing on all cylinders yet, and it takes him a moment to discern what he means. It hits him, and he cracks a grin.

"Oh... could you possibly double over backwards and fuck your throat?" he murmurs. "Come across my face? Wait. I'm confusing myself. Are you me, or are you you? Or..."

A combination of a stupid joke and a bit of lingering frustration that they're still not as free as they ought to be. As he thinks they ought to be, anyway, because the healers certainly wouldn't agree with Garrett's assessment. Cullen's remark about revisiting this at night has him suddenly rather giddy again.

"Touch yourself," he murmurs. "Where I can see. Will it take the edge off, or make it even worse? I'm not sure..."

He gives him his most droll eye roll for his horrible jokes. "So good to see your humor isn't broken. I don't think there's a healer alive who'd know what to make of that."

The expression doesn't last long. His eyes hold lambent heat at the more serious request, his smile deepening. "Pretty sure I know the answer for myself," he says.

Kneeling up, he spreads his thighs further to put himself at a good level for his viewing pleasure. He tugs the rest of the lacing free of the breeches and lets out a soft groan of relief. His cock emerges thick and red, already wet at the tip. He makes a show of scooping up from the base and squeezing just beneath the head to push a larger bead of clear precum out, letting it drip down over his grip. "Like this?" His voice is already thicker.

"Intact and working perfectly, I'm sorry to say." Even if it was badly bruised for a while, he's slowly gotten back into a more frequently jovial mood. It makes it easier not to fret, and not to worry about making Cullen fret.

His eyes widen, nearly glassy as he watches Cullen remove himself from his breeches, that rough hand wrapping around his swelling cock. Maker, his mouth is watering. This is almost certainly going to make it worse for him, too.

"Yes. Like that." He swallows. "Slower. Just your fingertips. I want you to ache as much as I am. In the-- non-literal..."

He can't help but grin as his sentence runs away with him and trails off. He reaches down to squeeze his calf lightly, keeping his grip of his cock front and center for him to see. "Don't worry, Love. I didn't get the impression you were wishing me pain." He's ridiculous sometimes. It's why he loves him as much as he does.

Shifting his hold, he takes himself between fingers and thumb, lightly stroking with slow movements up and down. His breathing hitches almost immediately. It is a form of torture after sucking him off the way he did. His hips jut forward of their own volition.

"You have your wish." His voice is soft. There's an intimacy in the closed space that reminds him of some of their forbidden trysts in Kirkwall, anywhere they could manage. That brings a different sort of ache, one he doesn't entertain for long. He wants this to be a happy occasion for both of them, not an evocation of regrets or old fears.

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Back to Basics (lovingvambrace)

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